Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

23

S

KIES OF

F

IRE

“I win again.” Jaime threw down his cards: all hearts. He grinned triumphantly at Dru. “Don’t feel bad. Cristina used to say I had the devil’s luck.”

“Wouldn’t the devil have bad luck?” Dru didn’t mind losing to Jaime. He always seemed pleased, and she didn’t care one way or the other.

He’d slept on the floor at the side of her bed the night before, and when she’d woken up, she’d rolled over and looked down at him, her chest full of happiness. Asleep, Jaime looked vulnerable, and more like his brother, though she thought now that he was better-looking than Diego.

Jaime was a secret, her secret. Something important she was doing, whether the others knew it or not. She knew he was on an important mission, something he couldn’t talk much about; it was like having a spy in her room, or a superhero.

“I will miss you,” he said frankly, linking his fingers together and stretching out his arms like a cat stretching in the sun. “This is the most fun, and the most rest, I have had in a long time.”

“We can stay friends after this, right?” she said. “I mean, when you’re done with your mission.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be done.” A shadow crossed his face. Jaime was much quicker of mood than his brother: He could be happy, then sad, then thoughtful, then laughing in a five-minute period. “It could be a long time.” He looked at her sideways. “You may come to resent me. I’ve made you keep secrets from your family.”

“They keep secrets from me,” she said. “They think I’m too young to know anything.”

Jaime frowned. Dru felt a little pinch of worry—they’d never discussed how old she was; why would they have? Usually, though, people thought she was at least seventeen. Her curves were bigger than other girls’ her age, and Dru was used to boys staring at them.

So far Jaime hadn’t stared, at least not the way other boys did, as if they had a right to her body. As if she ought to be grateful for the attention. And she’d discovered she desperately didn’t want him to know she was only thirteen.

“Well, Julian does,” she went on. “And Julian’s pretty much in charge of everything. The thing is, when we were all younger, we were all just ‘the kids.’ But after my parents died, and Julian basically brought us all up, we split into groups. I got labeled ‘younger’ and Julian was suddenly older, like a parent.”

“I know what that is like,” he said. “Diego and I used to play like puppies when we were children. Then he grew up and decided he had to save the world and started ordering me around.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”

He reached down to pull his duffel bag onto the bed. “I can’t stay much longer,” he said. “But before I go—I have something for you.”

He pulled a laptop computer out of the bag. Dru stared at him—he wasn’t going to give her a laptop, was he? He flipped it open, a grin spreading across his face. It was a Peter Pan sort of grin, one that said that he would never be done with mischief. “I downloaded The House That Dripped Blood,” he said. “I thought we could watch it together.”

Dru clapped her hands together and scrambled up onto the mattress beside him. He scooted over, giving her plenty of room. She watched him as he tilted the screen toward them so they could both see. She could read the words that curled up his arm, though she didn’t know what they meant. La sangre sin fuego hierve.

“And yes,” he said, as the first images began to unroll across the screen. “I hope we will in the future be friends.”

* * *

“Jules,” Emma said, leaning against the wall of the church. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Doesn’t there seem something kind of sacrilegious about burning down a church?”

“It’s abandoned. Unhallowed.” Julian pushed his jacket sleeves up. He was marking himself with a Strength rune, neatly and precisely, on the inside of his forearm. Behind him Emma could see the curve of the bay, the water dashing itself in blue curls against the shore.

“Still—we respect all religions. Every religion tithes to Shadowhunters. That’s how we live. This seems—”

“Disrespectful?” Julian smiled with little humor. “Emma, you didn’t see what I saw. What Malcolm did. He ripped apart the fabric of what made this church a hallowed place. He spilled blood, and then his blood was spilled. And when a church becomes a slaughterhouse like that, it’s worse than if it was some other kind of building.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Remember what Valentine did with the Mortal Sword? When he took it from the Silent City?”

Emma nodded. Everyone knew the story. It was part of Shadowhunter history. “He changed its alliance from seraphic to infernal. Changed it from good to evil.”

“And this church has been changed too.” He craned his head back to look up at the tower. “As sacrosanct a place as it once was, it’s that unholy now. And demons will keep being attracted to it, and keep coming through, and they won’t stay put here—they’ll come to the village. They’ll be a danger to the mundanes who live there. And to us.”

“Tell me this isn’t just you wanting to burn down a church because you want to make a statement.”

Julian smiled at her blandly—the sort of smile that made everyone love him and trust him, that made him seem harmless. Forgettable even. But Emma saw through it to the razor blades beneath. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear any statements I have to make.”

Emma sighed. “It’s a stone building. You can’t just draw a Fire rune on it and expect it to go up like matches.”

He looked at her levelly. “I remember what happened in the car,” he said. “When you healed me. I know what a rune that’s made when we draw on each other’s energy can do.”

“You want my help for this?”

Julian turned so he was facing the wall of the church, a gray sheet of granite, punctuated by boarded-up windows. Grass grew out of control around their feet, starred with dandelions. In the far distance Emma could hear the cries of children on the beach.

He reached out with his stele and drew on the stone of the wall. The rune flickered, tiny flames lapping at its edge. Fire. But the flames died down quickly, absorbed into the stone.

“Put your hands on me,” Julian said.

“What?” Emma wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

“It would help if we were touching,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Put your hands on my back, maybe, or my shoulders.”

Emma moved up behind him. He was taller than her; lifting her hands to his shoulders would mean stretching her body into an awkward position. This close to him, she could feel the expansion of his rib cage when he breathed, see the tiny freckles on the back of his neck where the wind had blown his hair sideways. The arc of broad shoulders into narrower waist and hips, the length of his legs.

She placed her hands on his waist, as if she were riding behind him on a motorcycle, under his jacket but on top of his T-shirt. His skin was warm through the cotton.

“All right,” she said. Her breath moved his hair; a shiver went over his skin. She could feel it. She swallowed. “Go ahead.”

She half-closed her eyes as the stele scratched against the wall. He smelled like cut grass, which wasn’t surprising, considering he’d been rolling in it with the struggling piskie.

“Why wouldn’t anyone want to hear them?” she asked.

“Hear what?” Julian reached up. His T-shirt rose, and Emma found her hands on bare skin, taut over oblique muscles. Her breath caught.

“Any statements you had to make about, you know, anything,” Emma said, as his feet settled back onto the ground. Her hands were tangled in the fabric of his shirt now. She looked up to see a second Fire rune: This one was deeper, darker, and the flames at its edges shone brightly. The stone around it began to crack—

And the fire went out.

“It might not work,” Emma said. Her heart was pounding. She wanted this to work, and at the same time she didn’t. Their runes ought to be more powerful when created together; that was the case for all parabatai. But there was a limit to that power. Unless two parabatai were in love with each other. Jem had made it sound as if their power, then, could be almost infinite—that it might grow until it destroyed them.

Julian no longer loved her; she’d seen it in the way he’d kissed that faerie girl. Still, it would be hard to have to watch the proof.

But maybe it would be the best thing for her. She’d have to face reality sooner rather than later.

She slid her arms around Julian, clasping them together across his stomach. The act pressed her body up against his, her chest flush against his back. She felt him tense in surprise.

“Try one more time,” she said. “Go slowly.”

She heard his breathing quicken. His arm went up, and the stele began to scratch out another rune against the stone.

Instinctively, her hands moved up his chest. She heard the stele hitch and skip. Her palm settled over his heart. It was hammering, slamming against the inside of his rib cage.

Julian’s heartbeat. The hundred thousand other times she had heard or felt it crashed into her like an express train. Six years old, she had fallen off a wall she was balanced on and Julian had caught her; they had fallen together, and she had heard his heartbeat. She remembered the pulse in his throat as he held the Mortal Sword in the Council Hall. Racing each other up the beach, putting her fingers to his wrist and counting the beats per minute of his heart afterward. The syncopated rhythm as their heartbeats matched during the parabatai ceremony. The sound of the roar of his blood when he carried her out of the ocean. The steady beat of his heart as she’d laid her head on his chest that night.

Her body shuddered with the force of memory, and she felt its strength pulse through her, and into Julian, driving the force of the rune like a whip up through his arm, his hand, the stele. Fire.

Julian drew in his breath sharply, dropping his stele; the tip was glowing red. He reeled back and Emma’s hands fell away from him; she nearly stumbled, but he caught her, pulling her away from the building, into the churchyard. Both panting, they stared: The rune Julian had drawn on the wall of the church had seared its way straight through the stone. The boards over the windows cracked, and orange tongues of flame leaped out.

Julian looked at Emma. The fire sparkled and crackled in his eyes, more than a reflection. “We did that,” he said, his voice rising. “We did that.”

Emma stared back at him. She was clutching his arms, just above the elbows, muscle hard under her fingers. Jules seemed lit from within, burning with excitement. His skin was hot to the touch.

Their eyes met. And it was Julian, her Julian, no shutters down over his expression, nothing hidden, only the clear brilliance of his eyes and the heat in his gaze. Emma felt as if her heart was tearing apart her chest. She could hear the hard crackle of the flames all around them. Julian moved toward her, closer, splintering her awareness of the need to keep him distant, of anything else but him.

The sound of sirens echoed in Emma’s ears, the howl of the fire brigade, hurtling toward the church. Julian drew away from her, only far enough to clasp her hand. They fled from the church just as the first of the fire engines arrived.

* * *

Mark didn’t really know how they’d all gotten into the library. He vaguely remembered going to check on Tavvy—who was building an elaborate tower of blocks with Rafe and Max—and then to knock on Dru’s door; she was in her room, and disinclined to come out, which seemed like a good situation. There was no reason to frighten her before it was necessary.

Still, Mark would have liked to see her. With Julian and Helen gone, and now Ty and Livvy somewhere in London, in danger, he felt like a house whose foundations had been ripped out from under it. He was desperately grateful that Dru and Tavvy were both safe, and also that at the moment, they didn’t need him. He didn’t know how Julian had done it all those years: how you were supposed to be strong for other people when you didn’t know how to be strong for yourself. He knew it was faintly ridiculous for him, an adult, to want the company of his thirteen-year-old sister to fortify his resolve, but there it was. And he was ashamed of it.

He was conscious of Cristina, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish to Magnus. Of Kieran, leaning on one of the tables, his head hanging down: His hair was a purple-black color, like the darkest part of water. Alec returning from the hallway with a pile of clothes in his hands. “These are Ty’s, Livvy’s, and Kit’s,” he said, handing them to Magnus. “I got them from their rooms.”

Magnus looked over at Mark. “Still nothing on the phone?”

Mark tried to breathe deeply. He’d called Emma and Julian as well as sending texts, but there had been no reply. Cristina had said she’d heard from Emma while she was in the library, and they both seemed to be fine. Mark knew that Emma and Julian were smart and careful, and that there was no better warrior than Emma. Worry pinched at his heart just the same.

But he had to focus on Livvy and Ty and Kit. Kit had next to no training, and Livvy and Ty were so young. He knew he’d been the same age when he was taken by the Hunt, but they were children to him nonetheless.

“Nothing from Emma and Jules,” he said. “I’ve tried Ty a dozen, two dozen times already. No answer.” He swallowed back the dread. There were a million reasons Ty might not pick up his phone that didn’t have to do with the Riders.

The Riders of Mannan. Even though he knew he was in the library of the London Institute, watching as Magnus Bane began passing his hands over the clothes, beginning the tracking spell, part of him was in Faerie, hearing the tales of the Riders, the murderous assassins of the Unseelie Court. They slept beneath a hill until they were wakened, usually in times of war. He’d heard them called the King’s Hounds, for once they had a whiff of their prey, they could follow them across miles of sea, earth, and sky in order to take their lives.

The King must want the Black Volume very badly, to have brought his Riders into it. In old days, they had hunted giants and monsters. Now they were hunting the Blackthorns. Mark felt cold all over.

Mark could hear Magnus speaking in a low voice, also explaining the Seven: who they were and what they did. Alec had given Cristina a gray shirt that was probably Ty’s; she was holding it, a Tracking rune on the back of her hand, but she was shaking her head even as she clutched it tighter. “It isn’t working,” she said. “Maybe if Mark tries—give him something of Livvy’s—”

A black flounced dress was shoved into Mark’s hands. He couldn’t picture his sister wearing something like it, but he didn’t imagine that was the point. He held it tightly, sketching a clumsy Tracking rune onto the back of his right hand, trying to remember the way Shadowhunters did this—the way you blanked your mind, reached out into the nothingness, trying to find the spark of the person you sought at the other end of your own reaching imagination.

But there was nothing there. The dress felt like a dead thing to his touch. There was no Livvy in it. There was no Livvy anywhere.

He opened his eyes on a gasp. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

Magnus looked confused. “But—”

“Those are not their garments,” said Kieran, lifting his head. “Do you not recall? Clothes were lent to them when they arrived here. I heard them complaining of it.”

Mark wouldn’t have thought Kieran had been paying enough attention to what the Blackthorns had been saying to take note of such details. Apparently he had.

But that was the way of Hunters, wasn’t it? Seem as if you are paying no attention, but absorb every detail, Gwyn had often said. A Hunter’s life can depend on what he knows.

“Is there really nothing of theirs?” Magnus demanded, a slight edge of panic in his voice. “The clothes they were wearing when they got here—”

“Bridget threw them away,” said Cristina.

“Their steles—”

“They would have with them,” said Mark. “Other weapons would be borrowed.” His heart was hammering. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“What about Portaling to the Los Angeles Institute?” said Alec. “Grabbing some of their things from there—”

Magnus had begun to pace. “It’s barred from Portaling right now. Security concerns. I could look for a new spell, we could send someone to dismantle the block on the California Institute, but any of those things takes time—”

“There is no time,” said Kieran. He straightened up. “Let me go after the children,” he said. “I pledge my life I will do everything I can to find them.”

“No,” Mark said, rather savagely, and saw the stricken look that passed over Kieran’s face. There was no time to explain or clarify, though. “Diana—”

“Is in Idris and cannot help,” said Kieran. Mark had slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers closed on something small, smooth, and cold.

“It might be time to summon the Silent Brothers,” said Magnus. “Whatever the consequences.”

Cristina winced. Mark knew she was thinking of Emma and Jules, of the Clave meeting in Idris, of the ruination and danger the Blackthorns faced. A ruination that would have taken place on Mark’s watch. Something that Julian would never have allowed to happen. Disasters did not happen on Jules’s watch—not ones he couldn’t fix.

But Mark couldn’t think of that. His whole mind, his heart, was filled with the image of his brother and sister in danger. And they were more than his brother and sister at that moment: He understood what Julian felt when he looked at them. These were his children, his responsibility, and he would die to save them.

Mark drew his hand out of his pocket. The gold acorn glittered in the air as he threw it. It struck the opposite wall and broke open.

Cristina whirled. “Mark, what are you—?”

There was no visible change in the library, but a scent filled the room, and for a moment it was as if they stood in a glade in Faerie—Mark could smell fresh air, dirt and leaves, earth and flowers, copper-tinged water.

Kieran had tensed all over, eyes full of a mixture of hope and fear.

“Alec,” Magnus said, reaching out a hand, and his voice was less a warning than a sort of stripped-down urgency—the uncanniness of Faerie had come into the room, and Magnus was moving to protect what he loved. Alec didn’t move, though, only watched with steady blue eyes as a shadow rose against the far wall. A shadow with nothing to cast it.

It stretched upward. The shadow of a man, head bent, broad shoulders slumped. Cristina put her hand to the pendant at her throat and murmured something—a prayer, Mark guessed.

The light in the room increased. The shadow was no longer a shadow. It had taken on color and form and was Gwyn ap Nudd, arms crossed over his thick chest, two-colored eyes gleaming from beneath heavy brows. “Mark Blackthorn,” he said, his voice a rumble. “I did not give that token to you, nor was it meant for you to use.”

“Are you really here?” Mark demanded, fascinated. Gwyn seemed solid enough, but if Mark looked closely, he thought he could see the edges of the window frames through Gwyn’s body . . . .

“He’s a Projection,” said Magnus. “Greetings, Gwyn ap Nudd, escort of the grave, father of the slain.” He bowed very slightly.

“Magnus Bane,” said Gwyn. “It has been a long time.”

Alec kicked Magnus in the ankle—probably, Mark suspected, to keep Magnus from saying something about how it hadn’t been long enough.

“I need you, Gwyn,” said Mark. “We need you.”

Gwyn looked disgruntled. “If I had wanted you to be able to call on me at your will, I would have given the acorn to you.”

“You called on me,” Mark said. “You came to me to ask me to help Kieran, and so I rescued him from the Unseelie King, and now the Riders of Mannan are hunting my brothers and sisters, who are only children.”

“I have carried the bodies of countless children from the battlefield,” said Gwyn.

He did not mean to be cruel, Mark knew. Gwyn simply had his own reality, of blood and death and war. There was never a time of peace for Gwyn or the Wild Hunt: Somewhere in the world, there was always war, and it was their duty to serve it.

“If you do not help,” said Mark, “then you make yourself a servant of the Unseelie King, protecting his interests, his plans.”

“Is that your gambit?” Gwyn said softly.

“It’s no gambit,” said Kieran. “The King my father means to wage a war; if you do not move to position yourself against him, he will presume you are with him.”

“The Hunt stands with no one,” said Gwyn.

“And that’s precisely who will believe that is true, if you do not act now,” said Mark. “No one.”

“The Hunt can find Livvy and Ty and Kit,” said Cristina. “You are the greatest seekers the world has ever known, much greater than the Seven Riders.”

Gwyn gave her a slightly incredulous look, almost as if he couldn’t believe she’d spoken at all. He looked half-amused, half-exasperated by her flattery. Kieran, on the other hand, looked impressed.

“Very well,” Gwyn said. “I will attempt it. I promise nothing,” he added darkly, and vanished.

Mark stood staring at the place Gwyn had vanished from, the blank wall of the library, unmarked by shadows.

Cristina offered him a worried smile. Cristina was always a revelation, he thought. Gentle and honest, but astonishingly capable of plying faerie tricks if necessary. Her words to Gwyn had sounded utterly sincere.

“He might sound reluctant, but if Gwyn says he will attempt something, he will leave no stone unturned,” Magnus said. He looked absolutely exhausted in a way Mark didn’t remember ever having seen him look before. Exhausted, and grim. “I’m going to need your help, Alec,” he said. “It’s time for me to Portal to Cornwall. We need to find Emma and Julian before the Riders do.”

* * *

The Council Hall clock was ringing through the Gard, sounding like the tolling of a huge bell. Diana, having finished her story some minutes ago, folded her hands atop the Consul’s desk. “Please, Jia,” she said. “Say something.”

The Consul rose from her seat behind the desk. She wore a flowing dress whose sleeves were edged with brocade. Her back was very straight. “It sounds like the work of demons,” she said in a strained voice. “But there are no demons in Idris. Not since the Mortal War.”

The previous Consul had died in that war. Jia had remained in power since, and no demons had entered Idris. But demons were not the only beings who ever meant harm to Shadowhunters.

“Helen and Aline would know had there been demon activity in Brocelind,” Jia added. “There are all sorts of maps and charts and sensitive instruments at Wrangel Island. They saw when Malcolm broke the wards around your Institute and reported it to me even before you did.”

“This was not the work of demons,” said Diana. “It did not have that feeling, the stench of demons—it was the death of growing things, a blight on the earth. It was what—what Kieran has described as happening in the Unseelie Lands.”

Be careful, Diana told herself. She had almost said it was what Julian had described. Jia would be an ally, she hoped, but she had not yet proved herself one. And she was still part of the Clave—its highest representative, in fact.

There was a knock on the door. It was Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor. He was pulling riding gloves from his hands. “What Miss Wrayburn says is true,” he said, without preamble. “There is a blighted space in the center of the forest, perhaps a mile from Herondale Manor. Sensors confirm no demon presence.”

“Were you alone when you went to look at it?” Diana demanded.

Robert looked faintly surprised. “A few others were with me. Patrick Penhallow, some of the younger Centurions.”

“Let me guess,” said Diana. “Manuel Villalobos.”

“I didn’t realize this was meant to be a confidential mission,” said Robert, raising his eyebrows. “Does it matter if he was there?”

Diana said nothing, only looked at Jia, whose dark gaze was weary.

“I hope you took some samples, Robert,” Jia said.

“Patrick has them. He’s taking them to the Silent Brothers now.” Robert stuffed his gloves in his pocket and glanced sideways at Diana. “For what it’s worth, I considered your request, and I believe a Council meeting regarding the issues of the Cohort and the faerie messenger would be useful.”

He inclined his head toward Diana and left the room.

“It’s better that he took Manuel and the others along,” said Jia in a low voice. “They cannot deny what they have seen, should it come to that.”

Diana rose from her chair. “What do you think they’ve seen?”

“I don’t know,” said Jia candidly. “Did you attempt to use your seraph blade, or a rune, when you were in the forest?”

Diana shook her head. She hadn’t told Jia what she’d been doing in Brocelind at dawn—certainly not that she’d been there on a semi-date with a faerie in her pajamas.

“You are going to argue this is a sign of the Unseelie Court’s incursion into our lands,” said Jia.

“Kieran said the Unseelie King would not stop at his own lands. That he would come for ours. That is why we need the Seelie Queen’s help.”

Which was contingent on finding the Black Volume, Diana knew, though she had not told Jia that. Getting rid of the Cohort was too important.

“I read the file you gave me,” Diana added. “I think you may have forgotten to remove some papers regarding Zara’s history from it.”

“Oh, dear,” said Jia, without inflection.

“You gave me those papers because you know it’s true,” said Diana. “That Zara has lied to the Council. That if she is considered a hero, it is because of those lies.”

“Can you prove that?” Jia had moved to the window. The harsh sunlight illuminated the lines in her face.

“Can you?”

“No,” Jia said, still looking through the glass. “But I can tell you something that I should not tell you. I spoke of Aline and Helen and their knowledge. Some time ago, they reported that they had seen something troubling the maps of Alicante, in the area of Brocelind. Something very odd, dark spots as if the very trees had been practicing evil magic. We rode out but saw nothing—perhaps the patches had not yet grown large enough to be visible. It was put down to a malfunction of equipment.”

“They’ll have to double-check,” Diana said, but her heart was pounding in excitement. Another piece of proof that the Unseelie King was a threat. A clear and present danger to Idris. “If their dark spots match up to the areas of blight, then they must come testify—show the Clave—”

“Slow down, Diana,” said Jia. “I’ve been thinking a great deal about you. I know there are things you are not telling me. Reasons you are so sure Zara didn’t kill Malcolm. Reasons you know so much about the Unseelie King’s plans. Since the first time I invited Julian Blackthorn and Emma Carstairs into my office, they have confounded me and hidden things from the Clave. As you are hiding things now.” She touched her fingers to the glass. “But I am weary. Of the Cold Peace that keeps my daughter from me. Of the Cohort and the climate of hate they breed. What you offer me now is a thin thread on which to tie all our hopes.”

“But it is better than nothing,” said Diana.

“Yes.” Jia turned back to her. “It is better than nothing.”

When Diana stepped out of the Gard some minutes later into the gray-white daylight, her blood was singing. She’d done it. There was going to be a meeting; Kieran would testify; they would have their chance to win the Institute back, and perhaps crush the Cohort.

She thought of Emma and Julian and the Black Volume. So much weight on shoulders too young to be forced to bear it. She remembered the two of them as children in the Accords Hall, their swords out as they ringed the younger Blackthorns, ready to die for them.

At the edge of her vision, a bright glint shone momentarily. Something tumbled to the ground at her feet. There was a flutter overhead, a disturbance among the heavy clouds. As Diana bent down and quickly pocketed the small, hollowed acorn, she already knew who the message was from.

Still, she waited until she was halfway down the path to Alicante to read it. To bring her a message in the middle of the day, even under cloud cover, Gwyn must have something serious to say.

Inside the acorn was a tiny piece of paper on which was written: Come to me now, outside the city walls. It is important. The Blackthorn children are in danger.

Flinging the acorn aside, Diana bolted down the hill.

* * *

The rain started up as Julian and Emma made their way back from Porthallow Church in silence. Julian seemed to remember the way perfectly, even cutting across the headlands on a path that led them directly down into the Warren.

The sunbathers on the dock and out by the pools under Chapel Rock were hurrying to gather up their things as the first drops of rain splashed down, mothers yanking clothes back onto their unwilling, swimsuited toddlers, bright towels being folded up, beach umbrellas put away.

Emma remembered the way her own father had loved storms on the beach. She recalled being held in his arms as thunder rolled out over the Santa Monica Bay, and he had told her that when lightning struck the beach, it fused sand into glass.

She could hear that roaring in her ears now, louder than the sound of the sea as it rose and began to pound against the rocks on either side of the harbor. Louder than her own breathing as she and Jules hurried up the slippery-wet path to the cottage and ducked inside just as the sky opened up and water came down like the spill through a breaking dam.

Everything inside the cottage seemed almost terrifying in its ordinariness. The kettle silent on the stove. Teacups and coffee mugs and empty plates scattered around the rag rug in front of the fireplace. Julian’s sweatshirt on the floor, where Emma had wadded it up and made a pillow out of it the night before.

“Emma?” Julian was leaning against the kitchen island. Water droplets had spattered his face; his hair was curling the way it always did in the humidity and damp. He had the expression of someone who was braced for something, some kind of awful news. “You haven’t said anything since we left the church.”

“You’re in love with me,” Emma said. “Still.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. He had been moving to unzip his jacket. His hands froze in midmotion, fingers reaching. She saw his throat move as he swallowed. He said, “What are you talking about?”

“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” she said. She pulled off her coat, reached to hang it on the peg by the door, but her hands were shaking and it fell to the floor. “But that isn’t true, is it?”

She heard him inhale, slow and hard. “Why are you saying that? Why now?”

“Because of the church. Because of what happened. We burned a church down, Julian, we melted stone.”

He yanked the zipper on his jacket down with a vicious jerk and threw it. It bounced off a kitchen cabinet. Underneath, his shirt was wet with sweat and rain. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with—” She broke off, her voice shaking. “You don’t understand. You can’t.”

“You’re right.” He stalked away from her, turned in the middle of the room, and kicked out suddenly, violently, at one of the mugs on the floor. It flew across the room and shattered against a wall. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it, Emma, I don’t understand why you suddenly decided you didn’t want me, you wanted Mark, and then you decided you didn’t want him either and you dropped him like he was nothing, in front of everyone. What the hell were you thinking—”

“What do you care?” she demanded. “What do you care how I feel about Mark?”

“Because I needed you to love him,” Julian said. His face was the color of the ashes in the grate. “Because if you threw me away and everything we had, it had better be for something that meant more to you, it had better be for something real, but maybe none of this is ever real to you—”

“Not real to me?” Emma’s voice tore out of her throat with such force it hurt. Her body felt as if electric sparks were running under her veins, shocking her, pushing her rage higher and higher, and she wasn’t even angry at Jules, she was angry at herself, she was angry at the world for doing this to them, for making her the only one who knew, the guardian of a poisonous, poisoning secret. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Julian Blackthorn! You don’t know what I’ve given up, what my reasons are for anything, you don’t know what I’m trying to do—”

“What you’re trying to do? How about what you did do? How about breaking my heart and breaking Cameron’s and breaking Mark’s?” His face twisted. “What, am I missing someone else, some other person whose life you want to wreck forever?”

“Your life isn’t wrecked. You’re still alive. You can have a good life! You kissed that faerie girl—”

“She was a leanansídhe! A shape-changer! I thought she was you!”

“Oh.” Emma stood for a moment, arrested in mid-motion. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. You really think I’m going to fall in love with someone else?” Julian demanded. “You think I get to do that? I’m not you, I don’t get to fall in love every week with someone different. I wish it wasn’t you, Emma, but it is, it’ll always be you, so don’t tell me my life isn’t wrecked when you don’t know the first thing about it!”

Emma slammed her hand against the wall. The plaster cracked, spidering out from the impact point. She felt the pain only distantly. A roiling black wave of despair rose, threatening to overwhelm her. “What do you want from me, Jules?” she demanded. “What do you want me to do?”

Julian took a step forward; his face looked as if it had been carved out of marble or something even harder, even more unyielding. “What do I want?” he said. “I want you to know what it’s like. To be tortured all the time, night and day, desperately wanting what you know you should never want, what doesn’t even want you back. To know how it feels to understand that a decision you made when you were twelve years old means you can never have the one thing that would make you truly happy. I want you to dream about only one thing and want only one thing and obsess about only one thing like I do—”

“Julian—” she gasped, desperate to stop him, to stop all this before it was too late.

“—like I do with you!” he finished, the words spat out almost savagely. “Like I do with you, Emma.” The rage seemed to have gone out of him; he was shaking now instead, as if in the grip of shock. “I thought you loved me,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I don’t know how I got that so wrong.”

Her heart cracked. She twisted away, away from the look in his eyes, away from his voice, away from the shattering of all her carefully made plans. She clawed the door open—she heard Julian call her name, but she had already plunged out of the cottage and into the storm.